


Go! Fight! Win!

by ryukoishida



Series: Attack the Crowd [1]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, cheerleaders AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: Pars University’s cheerleading club is dying, and Gieve and Isfan – the only second-year students left in the squad after all the seniors graduated – are determined to save it. First, they’ve got to recruit new blood, and Gieve has already spotted his first victims: a nimble, silver-haired first-year by the name of Arslan, and a bulky and intimidating fourth year by the name of Daryun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is trash. I’m trash. If you’re reading this, then welcome to this world of ridiculous cheerleading boys AU that nobody asked for. 
> 
> Also, the lovely moccino drew this brilliant piece for this fic: http://moccino.tumblr.com/post/150444396235/because-i-felt-like-rereading-the-glorious

“Are we really going to do this?”

 

Isfan sighs immediately after asking the redundant question, a little irritated that he wasn’t consulted before his energetic yet infuriatingly charming teammate drags him into this. He should have known that, once this man is determined to achieve something, no forces on earth can dissuade him. He claims that it’s one of the many positive attributes that attracts females to his side; most of the time, Isfan just finds those “positive attributes” a nuisance.

 

“Don’t you dare bail on me on this very significant occasion, Isfan! You’ve been doing this for an entire year; one would think you’d be used to this by now.”

 

“Doing this in front of a crowd during a game or a competition where people actually take us seriously is one thing,” Isfan eyes the violet-haired youth warily as he leans back against the student announcements board in the courtyard of the student union square, where people are either rushing from one class to another or taking their breaks on the benches and picnic tables available under the shade of the early autumn walnut trees that line the yard. “It’s an entirely different matter if it’s just the two of us yelling motivational phrases and dancing around like some cheap, mediocre street act.”

 

“How rude,” his teammate replies with a huff, blows the strands of forelocks off his face, and steps off the curb right into the crowd with a cardboard sign in his hand.

 

“Gieve,” Isfan reaches a hand out warningly, but it’s too late.

 

“Dazzling ladies and handsome gentlemen of Pars University campus, yes hello you, as well, my friends,” he winks at a group of rowdy first-years with skateboards tucked under their arms, who, when called out, quickly avert their eyes and shuffle away as fast as their legs can carry them.

 

‘Good decision,’ Isfan thinks, amused.

 

“We are the all men’s cheerleading club and we’re recruiting beautiful people like yourselves! Come see our demonstration for a taste of what you can experience! Enjoy your youth and become more fulfilled by encouraging and cheering on others!”

 

Miraculously – though Isfan supposes that with the deadly combination of Gieve’s looks, charm, and reputation, it’s hard not to attract any sort of attention – a crowd begins to gather in a semi-circle around them, curious murmuring a buzzing undulation that makes Isfan’s cheeks taint red with embarrassment.

 

“Alright, I think we’ve got a decent crowd,” Gieve comes back to put the signage down, a hand clasped on the taller man’s shoulder in a light squeeze, “let’s give them a good show that will make them flock to us.”

 

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Isfan heaves a sigh but rolls his shoulders in readiness regardless, the tension releasing in satisfying tendrils as he steps into the center of the half-circle with Gieve on his right side, a hesitant smile as he surveys the inquisitive audience around them.

 

He was never very good at naturally giving thousand-watt smiles to strangers like Gieve does. In fact, in the past year, he’s been told repeatedly by the senior members of the squad to stop scowling as if he has a grouch against the world even though Isfan has tried explaining many times that that is just his face’s default expression. It’s only when he gets absorbed into the choreography enough to forget he’s being watched that Isfan is able to relax into what Gieve calls a “cheerleading smile” – whatever that means.

 

“I knew I could count on you!” Gieve grins, and he raises his hands up to his chest. Isfan follows.

 

“5, 6, 7, 8!”

 

And they begin to clap in unison.

 

-

 

"Daryun, look!" 

 

The first-year business student, with a messenger bag slung across his shoulder and silver hair tied in a loose ponytail, flutters in excitement as he and his guardian join the rustling crowd on their way to the student union building for lunch.

 

Some of them are clapping along to the performers' cheers, half in amusement and half in bemusement, and others are merely watching, murmuring and jeering as they point towards the two young men.

 

"Young Master Arslan, please be careful!" He rushes into the crowd as well, his towering height and sturdy built efficiently opening a small entry-point for the smaller of the two to take advantage of and allows him to easily slip to the front, where they have a clearer view of whatever demonstration is going on. 

 

"Do you think they're promoting for the gymnastics club?" The one named Arslan looks up at his companion, midnight blue eyes gleaming with interest. 

 

"All men's cheerleading club," Daryun informs him instead, dark brows frowning in confusion, "according to their sign." He nods towards the discarded signage behind the performers. 

 

"Huh." Arslan turns his attention to the two students once more, marveling at the graceful way their bodies move and twist in their intricate routines of flips and somersaults across the narrow space with almost perfect synchronization and absolute confidence. 

 

The slighter man with the reddish-violet hair and willowy limbs appears to be more at ease with the crowd and attention; his grin is vibrant and inviting, so infectious is his smile that even his sea-green eyes seem to be soaked with warmth. His partner's facial expression, on the other hand, is a little bit stiffer, but his tumbling skills and striking golden eyes more than make up for the lack of a welcoming smile.

 

Daryun watches his young master with a fond smile and recalls that Arslan hasn’t joined any clubs since he started the semester. Mr. Andragoras, Arslan’s father and CEO of Ecbatana Trading Co., has put his son under rigorous training within his own company whenever Arslan doesn’t have any classes in the hopes that he’ll help out in the company immediately upon graduation. In addition to studying and keeping up with his homework to appease Andragoras’ strict expectations of getting straight-A’s, this doesn’t leave Arslan a lot of time to rest, let alone to participate in extracurricular activities.

 

Being the bodyguard and brother-figure since Arslan’s early childhood, Daryun can tell the workload is taking a toll on the younger man for the last two months. It isn’t only the lack of sleep that he’s concerned about, either; with his busy schedule, Arslan barely has time to socialize with his classmates and so in the two months of starting the semester, Arslan hasn’t made any friends at all. Daryun had once mentioned this to his uncle, Vahriz, who’s been Andragoras’ right-hand man since the start of their business, but Vahriz merely shook his head and told Daryun to just stick to his job.

 

After all, Vahriz reminded him, Andragoras is the one who provides Daryun with the money and opportunity to attend such a prodigious university that allows him to study in the program he excels at.

 

Daryun’s attention shifts back to the present when he realizes that the two-men cheerleading demonstration is coming to an end, as the performers conclude their routine with a series of very impressive back handsprings and back flips, and a breathless but enthusiastic shout of “Go, Pars, Go!”  

 

The crowd disperses like the rapid flow of a mighty river in all directions as soon as they sense the end of the spectacle, and in the disarray, Arslan is jostled to and fro by the taller and brawnier students trying to get to their classes on time.

 

“Young Master Arslan, watch out!” 

 

Daryun can only watch from a distance, separated as they are by a group of chattering girls, a hand reaching out helplessly as Arslan is about to be knocked over by a male student with a huge backpack.

 

“Woah, careful there!”

 

Someone tugs him to the side with a sharp jerk on Arslan’s upper arm, effectively helping him avoiding the collision that would have otherwise resulted in Arslan on the ground and an angry bodyguard trying to start a fight in the middle of a very crowded university campus.

 

When the two manage to move out of the crowd, and Daryun jogs over to join them, the dark-haired bodyguard sees with dismay that the strange violet-haired cheerleader still has a light grasp of his young master’s arm. Before he can say anything, however, the cheerleader starts on Arslan with a dazzling grin.

 

“You know, I honestly couldn’t tell from just looking at your physique, but you’ve got some serious biceps and forearm muscles.”

 

“Ah, I used to do tennis in high school,” Arslan explains, his chuckle a little nervous because the stranger still hasn’t let go of his arm yet. “Excuse me, but–– ”

 

“Tennis huh? Good reflexes and quick on your feet,” the man murmurs under his breath, and a grin is slowly forming along his lips as he gazes at him, turquoise eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. “Say, are you at all flexible?”

 

“All right, that’s quite enough,” Daryun finally has the sense to interrupt, one hand reaching out for the cheerleader’s wrist, fingers squeezing just hard enough for the other student to take it as a warning to let go.

 

Gieve looks up in surprise, and wide turquoise eyes meet fierce golden ones; he’s been so excited about the prospect of recruiting a new member with such promising potential that he’s forgotten where he is. Without the man uttering an actual threat, Gieve calmly let go, and immediately after, the man releases his arm as well, and stands between Gieve and the silver-haired man.

 

They seem to know each other well, Gieve observes silently. The skin where the man has touched him is still warm and red from the pressure.

 

If the man had squeezed any harder, Gieve is certain that he’ll leave bruises on his skin. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. Gieve pushes the strange line of thought away for another day.

 

Now that Gieve has a chance to survey him properly, he realizes that the man would make a great base as well – all that toned upper body muscles barely concealed by his t-shirt.

 

Killing two birds with one stone – perfect.

 

“And you must be on the football team,” Gieve exclaims as he looks the man up and down with an appreciative regard.

 

“Rowing team, actually,” Daryun corrects him with a cold gaze, and he’s already half pulling Arslan away from the man with a too-bright grin who’s looking as if he’d steal both of them away if he has the chance. Daryun can smell trouble and bullshit off of him from five miles away.

 

Before Daryun and Arslan can make their escape, however, the brunet who was performing with the flirtatious cheerleader appears by their side.

 

“Excuse us for not introducing ourselves sooner,” he says with a slight bow while side-eyeing his partner with an impressive glare. “My name’s Isfan and this idiot here is Gieve. We are both part of Pars University’s all men’s cheerleading club and we’re recruiting new members. So if you’re interested, please consider joining us.”

 

He hands them both a colourful pamphlet each.

 

While Arslan reads the information on the sheet attentively, Daryun is about to tear it up and throw the pieces in Gieve’s face, who still has a scheming gleam to his eyes and an irritatingly attractive smirk that should have Daryun worried.

 

But he has more manners than that, so he doesn’t. Instead, he folds the pamphlet up and puts it in his back pocket with no intention to even glance at it once.

 

“So, how about it? I’ll even throw in a special membership bonus just for you,” Gieve has the audacity to wink at him, and Daryun turns his head to the side with a disgusted grimace.

 

“Do I even want to know?” Daryun mutters mostly to himself, which Gieve chooses to ignore.

 

“A date with me!” the cheerleader exclaims in delight, as if the possibility to go on a date with him is the most honorable and precious opportunity someone can get. “Do you know how many people would literally beg to be in your place?”

 

Arslan and Daryun stare at him, the former in fascination because being as sheltered as he is within his narrow social circle and overprotective family, he’s never encountered such an interesting and eccentric character, and the latter in absolute incredulity. The two men then look over to Isfan for some sort of explanation, maybe, or they simply just don’t know how to respond to that proclamation.

 

“I wish I can say that he’s joking…” Isfan heaves a long-suffering sigh and a shrug, “but despite his obnoxious and flirtatious behavior, Gieve is actually quite popular with both women and men.”

 

“We’re still young! Why settle for a long-term relationship at our age when there are so many wonderful people out there?”

 

“You have a terrible personality, you know that?”

 

“Love you too, Isfan.” 

 

While the two cheerleaders bicker, Daryun and Arslan are talking quietly amongst themselves.

 

“I know Father won’t be happy about this, but…” Arslan folds and unfolds one of the corners of the pamphlet repeatedly, his fingers restless and trying to find distraction; it’s a small, nervous habit he has developed since he was a child.

 

He can already vividly picture his father’s furious visage in his mind, having witnessed it countless of times whether it was aimed at him or at his own employees, and Arslan would rather avoid another ugly confrontation if only for the sake of having a precious moment of peace at home.

 

“But?” Daryun prompts gently. He can tell that it’s taking a lot of effort for the younger man to say what needs to be said; it’s a negative consequence resulting from years of being under constant scrutiny of a father who demands too much and trying to amend the relationship with a mother who cares too little.

 

“I want to join the cheerleading club! I want to –– I want to encourage people who may be feeling down, I want to do what I can to make someone’s day just a little bit better, much like what you’ve done for me throughout my life, Daryun,” Arslan smiles up at him with open honesty, his midnight blue eyes glimmering with a new kind of strength in the sunlight as he finds the resolve in his words.

 

He turns to the two cheerleaders who are still squabbling amongst themselves and appearing to not be paying any attention to them at the moment, and he laughs a little, the sound soft and genuine. “Besides, it looks like it’ll be fun to make some new acquaintances as well.”

 

Daryun follows the direction of Arslan’s gaze, and he admits, “Isfan seems like a decent enough guy; I don’t know about that other one though.”

 

Arslan laughs a little harder at Daryun’s unforgiving commentary, but the hint of worry seeps back onto his face like a dark cloud threatening to wipe out the brilliance of the sun. “I’m just worried about Father’s reaction. What if –– ”

 

“Young Master Arslan, I may be speaking out of turn…” Daryun starts before he can allow his ward to continue. He hates seeing that look on Arslan’s face – the hesitance, the fear – and he hates it even more that it is his father who’s the source of it all; he’d do anything to make him happy and instill him with self-confidence, even if it means he’ll have to join the damn cheerleading club in order to support him and protect him from lecherous scum like Gieve.

 

“You know your counsel means everything to me, Daryun,” Arslan turns back towards his bodyguard and friend.  

 

“Master Andragoras may think he knows what’s best for you, but he doesn’t always make the best decisions. He’s not you, and to be quite frank, he doesn’t have the right to dictate how you should live your life,” the volume of his voice escalates just a little from the steady climb of his emotion before he remembers himself. “You’re the one who knows yourself best, so choose not for the sake of your father but for your own.”

 

“You’re right,” Arslan nods, a small but sincere smile lighting up his face, the ominous clouds of self-doubt dissipating at his companion’s encouraging words, “as always.”

 

Arslan has made his decision, and Daryun cannot be any happier.

 

“But what about you, Daryun? Didn’t you say you’re planning to quit the rowing club? What will you do instead?”

 

“Young Master Arslan…”

 

“Oh ho, what’s this? That’s more the reason for you to join us! The cheerleading club has way more fun than the rowing club anyway,” Gieve then adds as an afterthought, “of course, we have more attractive members than the rowing club as well.”

 

“Can you please stop? You’re scaring our potential members away,” Isfan slaps him firmly on the back of his head, and Gieve sends him a harassed look.

 

“You should listen to your partner more,” Daryun comments with a wry smirk, “he seems to know exactly what he’s doing.”

 

“Don’t be fooled by his goody-two-shoes act,” Gieve wags his finger at Daryun, and then seems to recall his original train of thought, “and don’t try to drag me off topic.”  

 

“I will join this club if Young Master Arslan chooses to join,” Daryun announces, his lips in a firm line.

 

“Are you certain about this? I wouldn’t want to force you into something you’re not interested in,” Arslan looks startled at his bodyguard’s declaration.

 

“I can’t leave you in the hands of some third-rate acrobat, can I?”

 

“Hey, I resent your clearly biased opinion of my acrobatic skills!” Gieve starts to protest but he takes a step back when Daryun reels back towards him with a stare that can rival an angry black bear’s. Not that Gieve has ever witnessed one – an angry black bear, that is – but he’s pretty sure the expressions are about the same.

 

“If you lay one filthy hand on him…”

 

“Well, I mean, you’ve got to be reasonable here, uh –– what did you say your name is again?”

 

“I never told you my name.”

 

“It’s Daryun,” Arslan quickly adds from the side when he steps to stand adjacent to the taller man, a hesitant smile grazing his lips when he looks up through his silver fringes, “and I’m Arslan.”

 

“A pleasure,” Gieve nods with that dazzling smile of his again that has men and women fall to his feet before he glances back towards Daryun, who seems highly unamused, “Like I said, Daryun, you’ve got to be reasonable. How will I teach him if I were not allowed to have any physical contact with him?”

 

“He’s got a point for once,” Isfan says, looking from Daryun’s frustrated expression to Gieve, and deliberately ignores Gieve’s offended glare at yet another of Isfan’s verbal jab.

 

“No unsolicited touches outside of practice then. Reasonable enough for you?” Daryun relents, though his golden eyes are warning him that if Gieve were to take this any further, the fourth-year sports science student will find multiple creative ways to give him grief.

 

“Perfect!” Gieve’s grin is frighteningly cheerful for someone who’s basically just been threatened.

 

Isfan quickly adds the two new members’ phone numbers onto their WhatsApp group chat so that they can arrange a time to get together for practice.

 

“Now then,” Gieve wraps one arm around Arslan’s shoulders and the other across Daryun’s back – since he can’t quite reach up to his shoulders with that ridiculous titan height, “to commemorate the occasion of you both officially joining the cheerleading club, let’s go and get a drink ––”

 

“No drinking before 5 p.m., Gieve. Besides, don’t you have that History of the Romantic Era Composers class to attend, which, by the way, started five minutes ago?” Isfan pulls him by the back of his shirt and then turns to the two new members of the cheerleading squad with an apologetic shake of his head. “Seriously. Once you get used to him, he becomes semi-tolerable.”

 

“Why do you enjoy tormenting me so much, Isfan? You know I detest that class!”

 

“You’re also failing it, and if you don’t show up to class again, your prof is going to give you more than just a scolding.”

 

“Isfaaaaan!”

 

Arslan and Daryun can still hear Gieve’s desolate moaning of despair when the two get swallowed up by the crowd of students in the central plaza; they turn to share a look. While Arslan seems amused by his new teammates and excited at the prospect of finally starting club activities, Daryun is a messy mixture of happiness for his young master to have finally found a club he’s interested in, and worry and weariness about the cheerleading club itself.

 

Only time will tell if Daryun’s concern is truly founded.

 

-

 

“Narsus?! What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Daryun stops short after he’s landed a satisfactory combination of a round-off and three consecutive back handsprings when he sees the recognizable head of blond hair swept up in a messy bun standing by the entrance – a familiar sight that is both shocking and ominous for Daryun.

 

It’s Wednesday evening – about two weeks after Daryun and Arslan have joined Pars University’s all men’s cheerleading club –  and the cheerleader’s club has booked Gym D, which is the smallest and frankly shabbiest of the four in the facility, for two hours of practice. The man named Narsus is, at the moment, talking to the club’s leader, Gieve.

 

That, Daryun surmises, cannot come to any good.

 

“It’s nice to see you too, old friend,” Narsus turns around to greet him with a pleasant smile, which only makes Daryun dread whatever he’s about to face even more.

 

“You two know each other?” Isfan asks from one corner of the gym, where he’s showing Arslan how to do a proper handstand on a padded mat.

 

“They’re best friends for over a decade,” Arslan tells him from his up-side-down position, where his legs are held together and supported by Isfan’s hands.

 

“Unfortunately,” Daryun mutters, shaking his head and walking towards them. “So what – as I believe I’ve asked – the hell are you doing here?”

 

“I’ve heard from one of your teammates from the rowing club that you’ve quit and have joined the cheerleader’s club instead, so I, of course, must see this for myself,” Narsus crosses his arms before his chest, a posture oozing confidence and graceful ease.

 

“Since when have you become such good buddies with those guys anyway? I thought you’re above socializing with them.” It’s meant to be a malicious jab, but as usual, Narsus always seems to have no awareness of it, or he’s excellent at concealing the reaction from displaying so plainly and obviously on his face.

 

“I’m not above socializing with anyone if they can provide me with accurate and useful information.”

 

Daryun notes that his friend never denies the fact that there are, in fact, some people he’d rather not mingle with, but he can somewhat understand Narsus’ position, as he, too, has people he’d rather avoid talking to. His gaze immediately finds Gieve’s figure, and the cheerleader team’s captain blinks up at him with innocent, sea-green eyes. His smirk, on the other hand, spells anything other than wide-eyed innocence.

 

“Anyway, I was just talking to the captain here about joining the club as well, before you so rudely interrupted us,” Narsus tells him, his smile growing into a full-on wicked grin as he witnesses the gradual change of expression from confusion to absolutely horrified realization on his best friend’s face.

 

“You? You’re joining us? B-but aren’t you already in the visual arts club?” He doesn’t give a damn if panic is starting to show in his voice; Daryun has more important things to worry about right now.

 

“Eh. The president kicked me out a few weeks ago,” Narsus shrugs nonchalantly as if it wasn’t that big of a deal, a lock of pale golden hair falling into his eyes as he does so.

 

“How does one even get kicked out of an arts club?” Gieve snorts, slapping Narsus on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

 

Narsus doesn’t seem to mind, and replies with a pleased grin, “He says, and I quote, ‘This club has no room for half-assed artist who scrawls penises on walls and calls it his masterpiece, even if it’s painted in Picasso’s style.’”

 

“Wait, you drew dicks on school property and didn’t even get in trouble?” Gieve’s eyes widen in admiration, his tone dripping with awe.

 

“He called you a ‘half-assed artist’ and survived?” Daryun says instead, a brow arched up. He’s actually more surprised by the fact that Narsus isn’t distraught about being called anything other than an artistic genius.

 

“All right, first of all,” Narsus lifts his finger and starts listing, “they aren’t dicks; they’re flowers – chrysanthemums, to be precise. Secondly, I wasn’t going for Picasso at all, so the president obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And lastly, how do you know the president is still alive?”

 

“Oh god, you didn’t…” Daryun swallowed, but the devilish gleam in Narsus’ amethyst eyes only confirms his suspicion.

 

Gieve looks from Narsus to Daryun and back to Narsus again, his curiosity slowly killing him inside.

 

“I sure as hell did, and you know he deserves it.”

 

“But what did you do, Narsus?” Arslan asks what everyone’s been dying to know. He and Isfan have wandered over to join the conversation; it’s not like they’ll be doing much practicing now that three out of five people in this gym is preoccupied by gossips and such. 

 

“A little payback, is all,” Narsus says as he folds his arms across his chest with a satisfied grin on his lips, “let’s just say that a little accident has happened to one of his main pieces for the upcoming semester exhibition.”

 

“You’re such a bad man, I like you a lot already,” Gieve nods approvingly.

 

“You better watch yourself, Narsus,” Daryun sniggers, “the captain here is infamous for being a big flirt and I think he’s just taken a liking to you.”

 

Gieve throws an arm around the blond’s shoulders.

 

“Oh don’t worry, you’re not my type at all, no offense. It’s just that working with those two strait-laced, stick-in-the-mud have been so suffocating for the last couple of weeks; you’re a breath of fresh air. Oh, but having said that, Daryun,” the man turns to the tall brunet with a wink, “you’re still my favourite, okay? The way you land a backhand spring double full? Makes me melt into a puddle, damn.”

 

Arslan tries to hide his giggles when he sees his guardian’s flustered expression; it’s so unlike his usual stoic features that Arslan is honestly quite impressed with how efficient Gieve is when it comes to riling up the older student, even if it’s from a casual off-handed comment.

 

On the other hand, though Daryun looks like he’s about to breathe fire, in the end, it’s just as Isfan has expected; he’s gotten used to the overly flamboyant cheerleader’s antics and has given up on doing anything about it other than rolling his eyes every time the man opens his mouth or sputters indignantly every instance Gieve attempts to use a horrible pick-up line on him.

 

It’s amusing to watch from the sidelines, and even Isfan, quiet and serious as he is most of the time, can’t help but snicker; his initial sympathy for Daryun has all but vanished in the few weeks they’ve known each other.

 

“You’ll also be glad to know that I might be able to convince a few of my acquaintances to join,” Narsus’ addition is a welcomed change of topic.

 

“You mentioned something about getting us a coach, too, didn’t you?” Gieve sounds genuinely impressed with how efficient Narsus is proving himself to be. “It’d be great to have someone working on the choreography and whipping the new recruits into shape.”

 

“Isn’t the new recruits your responsibility, captain?” Isfan asks with a straight face.

 

“Whipping is not really my thing though,” Gieve taps a thoughtful finger against his chin. “I’m more on the side of the receiving end.”

 

“Too much information!” Daryun covers Arslan’s ears and glares at the turquoise-eyed cheerleader with murderous intent, and Narsus just barks out a laugh that echoes around the gym. 

 

“What happened to your previous coach?” Arslan asks, peeling his guardian’s hands off gently with a chuckle. Sometimes, Arslan thinks Daryun might have forgotten that he’s not a child anymore and that he is, in fact, 18 years old and attends university with all sorts of people with different backgrounds, where the explicit topic of BDSM is the least offensive thing he’s overheard in awhile.  

 

“The old bastard thought we wouldn’t be able to gather enough people to form a proper team in time for the Nationals, so he gave up on us after all the upperclassmen left – some having graduated and others wanting to concentrate on their last year of studies – and he started coaching the co-op dance team instead,” Gieve wrinkles his nose in distaste at the mention of their past coach.

 

The middle-aged man has no vision for the future, Gieve has always thought, since he’s been insisting on sticking to traditions, which ended up making their choreography painfully obsolete and boring to watch.

 

“Wait, we’re still aiming for the Nationals this year?” Isfan looks taken aback by Gieve’s announcement. He isn’t the only one.

 

“Don’t you think we’re setting our sights kind of high for a team that only has five members so far and over half of us are novices?” Daryun adds, sounding doubtful.

 

“You’re such a pessimist, Daryun,” Gieve clicks his tongue with a shake of his head, “How would the team improve if we don’t have a clear goal to work towards?”

 

“How are we getting into any tournaments if we only have five members?” Daryun shoots back without pause. “I thought the minimum number of people eligible to enter the regionals is seven.”

 

“You’ve done your research, huh?” Gieve’s expression brightens up slightly.

 

“I like to know exactly what I’m getting myself into when I sign up for this,” Daryun only replies, crossing his arms, and doesn’t say more.

 

“Like I said, if the number of people is your only concern, then there’s no need to worry about that––” Narsus starts, and he pauses when he spots someone by the doorway, “––ah, speak of the devil. Elam, we’re over here.” Narsus waves to the young man with a mob of tousled brown hair and bright green eyes.

 

“Mr. Narsus,” he nods in a polite greeting and begins to make his way over, his observant gaze carefully sweeping over every face present in the room until he sets his eyes on one person. He freezes, eyes not unlike those of an owl’s as they grow wide with recognition; it looks like half of him wants to run and hide but the other half of him is too stunned to actually do anything at all.

 

“Elam…?” Arslan turns at the mention of his name and his lips curve upwards into a small but genuine smile at the sight of another familiar face. “This is certainly a small world, isn’t it?”

 

“Are you acquainted with this young man, Young Master Arslan?” Daryun has never heard Arslan mention anything about an acquaintance in any of his classes, so his protective streak rises instinctively, his eyes narrowing cautiously as Elam comes near them. He stops by Narsus’ side and goes no further.

 

“We’re in the same German language class,” Arslan says.

 

He wouldn’t call them friends, because Arslan is always a little too shy to initiate a conversation, so the most they’ve interacted is during group work when they have to partner up to read out loud from the textbook. Despite how little he knows about Elam, who always seem so serious and intimidating that it’s almost as if he’s built a high wall around himself, he admires his classmate for his hardworking attitude, which is reflected in the near perfect scores on his assignments and quizzes.

 

He’s also not going to pretend that he can ignore that head of messy brown hair, which looks utterly soft to the touch, or the twitch of those lips when it almost breaks into a full smile.

 

Arslan is hoping that one of these days he’ll be able to work up enough courage to at least carry small talks with the brunet and from there, they can get to know each other more.

 

“But we’re not that close, we just… sit next to each other in class,” Elam adds, and his voice falters towards the end of his statement as he looks away, his eyes focusing on anywhere but the silver-haired youngster.

 

“That’s true,” Arslan laughs softly, midnight blue eyes averted as his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

 

There are a few seconds of silence in the gym after that exchange as the upperclassmen look at each other – some in confusion, and others, namely Gieve, in glee.

 

“All right, we’re obviously witnessing a very awkward yet promising blooming romance here, but we’ve got some organization to do so let’s all settle down.”

 

Gieve looks from one blushing first-year to the other with absolute delight, an impish grin lighting up his entire visage, and if he didn’t have to lead a very serious meeting right now, he’d get right down to the teasing. As it is, he has an agenda to run, which includes scheduling practice sessions and organizing his scattered team members into a group he can work with. He hopes they’ll be able to work out a routine by the time the school festival rolls around in two months’ time; showcasing their club’s skills on stage will attract more members to join. At least, that’s what Gieve’s planning to do for now.  

 

First things first, he needs to give each of them a position. Gieve whips out his notebook and pen, and points the writing utensil at the newcomer.

 

“Elam, right? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 

“Huh?”

  

-

 

After two hours of nonstop training, his arms and wrists are slightly sore from the handstands and round-offs he’s been practicing; in addition to that, the core muscle training regimen Isfan has been putting him through since he joined is giving his abdominal muscles subtle aches. It’s a lot better than when he’s first started, Arslan knows, and he’s glad all the training and practicing has been paying off.

 

He spots Elam sitting by himself on the far side of the gym watching Narsus and Daryun bicker on one of the big mats a few feet away, so Arslan slowly, with determined steps, wanders toward that direction.

 

“I didn’t know you can do all… that,” Arslan plops down next to him, a water bottle in one hand.

 

His cheeks feel too hot, and the suffocating heat is spreading down to his neck; Arslan tries to convince himself it’s from the excessive practice and the terrible ventilation system of this sorry excuse of a gymnasium that’s causing the sudden rise of his body temperature, but even he knows better than that.

 

He’s referring to the tumbling skills Elam was doing upon Gieve’s request earlier. He may seem slight in height, but he’s agile and flexible, graceful and quick like a gazelle, and he’s able to display all that in his fluid and graceful movements. 

 

“You never asked,” Elam replies too quickly – isn’t thinking at all, heart thudding at how close they’re sitting together, with their backs against the wall – and it seems like he’s realized he shouldn’t have said that, for he immediately seeks for his water bottle and takes a long drink from it.

 

“I apologize if I’ve put you on the spot earlier,” Arslan says, his voice soft, and his gaze is focused on the plastic bottle in his hands. The condensation drips down his fingertips like chips of ice, soothing the raw soreness of his hands.

 

“You didn’t,” Elam mumbles, fingers playing with the metallic clip attached to his bottle, “I just didn’t expect to see you here, of all places.”

 

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Arslan turns to him slightly with a weak grin, and Elam chooses this exact moment to look up.

 

The long, lush silver lashes that make his blue eyes stand out like a clear, night sky that one will gladly drown in; flawless skin flushing pink with warmth and untouched by the sun; and a smile so gentle, so tender, that Elam knows he’s most definitely done the moment he’s decided to join the all men’s cheerleading club, which contains a certain silver-haired man by the name of Arslan.

 

“Y-your hands!” Elam yelps, pointing at them as if his exclaim hasn’t been obvious enough, which startles Arslan into scooting back a little. “What happened to them?”

 

“Oh, this?” Arslan places his water bottle on the floor and rolls his left wrist carefully; the ache isn’t jabbing as sharply as before, but the lurching waves of faint pain has been bothering him during practice. Isfan has suggested stretching and warming up before each practice session, but since it’s been awhile he’s last picked up a tennis racket, the soreness has sustained for a longer period of time than Arslan has expected. “It’ll be fine once I’m more used to it.”

 

“You need to take better care of your body if you want to last in cheerleading,” Elam drags his backpack over and begins to dig through it, finally pulling out a roll of sports tape and facing him with an expectant look. “Hand?”

 

“E-excuse me?” Arslan blinks, unsure if he’s heard him wrong or if he’s finally given in to his mind’s fantasy.

 

“Your hand,” Elam repeats, a hint of impatience seeping into his tone though it remains mostly stiff and polite, “I’ll tape it for you to reinforce and stabilize your wrist so it won’t bother you as much when you practice later.”

 

“Oh…” Arslan chuckles, his smile sheepish and the flush on his cheeks deepens in colour, and hesitantly stretches out his arm, “Thank you, Elam.” 

 

“Yeah, sure,” Elam murmurs as he concentrates on his task, meticulously winding the tape around Arslan’s wrist.

 

Where their skin touches, a trail of pleasant warmth remains.

 

Dwelled in the lovely sensation of sitting so close to Elam, Arslan doesn’t have the heart to tell his classmate that he actually has sports tape in his own bag as well.

 

-

 

“See? What did I tell you, Daryun? There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Elam’s a good kid,” Gieve crowds into his personal space, a hand clasping on his shoulder.

 

“Please, Gieve, you’ve met him for all of two hours,” Daryun says, exasperated, “how do you know what he’s like?”

 

“Look at him, he’s taking really good care of your young master for someone who claims to be just a classmate who’s ‘not that close’,” Gieve nods over to where Elam is taping up Arslan’s wrists. “Also, is it just me or are young people nowadays extra tentative? They’re not going to go anywhere at this rate.”

 

“I think you’re just extra shameless,” Isfan adds from behind where Gieve is standing.

 

“Agreed,” Daryun holds up his fist, and Isfan bumps it with his own before he moves on to do the next set of exercises on the training menu.

 

“Narsus, help me out here,” Gieve calls the blond-haired student over, mock despair filling his voice.

 

“If it’ll set your mind at ease, Daryun, Elam has been my student since he’s in junior high, and I can tell you that besides his intellect, his kind and earnest heart is his next best trait,” Narsus joins them. “Besides, didn’t you say that you’re worried about how Arslan doesn’t have any friends at school? It’ll be good for him to befriend someone close to his age, right?” 

 

“I suppose that’s true.”

 

Daryun looks on, and begrudgingly let a small smile graze his lips. It’s nice to see his young ward finally talking and having fun without having his father watching over his shoulder and decreeing the kind of acquaintances his son should make. This is a new and significant step for Arslan, Daryun understands that much.

 

Perhaps it’s best to leave them be for now.

 

-

 

It’s another week before the cheerleading club gets to meet their new coach.

 

“Gieve?”

 

“At your service, oh beautiful guardian angel of my life and soul.”

 

A sigh passes through ruby-red lips and and a cold hostile glance sent his way before she says in an imperturbable tone, “Just state your position in the squad.”

 

“As you wish, Ms. Farangis,” his grin grows wide as he makes a small bow. “Captain and flyer.”

 

The black-haired woman who looks elegant even while standing still and donning a fitted t-shirt and matching track-pants doesn’t seem that much older than the group of men surrounding her, but her subtly powerful stature and calm voice commands the men’s rapt attention.  

 

“Isfan?”

 

“Vice captain and base.”

 

A single, careful glance, and Farangis nods once, satisfied. The rest of the roll-call is quick and efficient.

 

“Daryun?”

 

“Base.”

 

“Arslan?”

 

“Flyer.”

 

“Narsus?”

 

“Spotter and tactician.”

 

Farangis raises a brow as she glances up at the blond man with piercing, intelligent violet eyes. “Tactician? It’s been only a few years since I last worked with a cheerleading team. Is that a new position that no one’s told me about?” She looks around with expectant emerald eyes as she waits for someone to give her an adequate answer.

 

“Actually, he called himself a tactician because he claims he has a vast network of acquaintances in most of the countries’ colleges and universities,” Daryun warily informs the coach.

 

“If there’s an ace member from a top school in the north who got injured and had to drop out from the the competition last minute, I’d be the first to know about it. Collecting and analyzing data like this in order to predict other schools’ movements will be helpful in planning out our squad’s approach during the tournament season,” Narsus explains in a bit more detail, which seems to satisfy Farangis for now.

 

“That could be useful,” the coach says briefly before moving on.

 

“Elam?”

 

“Flyer.”

 

“Jaswant?”

 

“Spotter.”

 

Jaswant, an exchange student majoring in linguistics who at first gives off a mysterious vibe, mostly due to his quiet nature and brooding sea-green eyes, though he’s surprisingly gentle and considerate when he’s interacting with the two youngest members in the team, is another new member recommended by Narsus. He started three days after Elam joined, and is now known to be one of the most hardworking members of the squad; his tumbling techniques are not shabby either, though there’s more room for improvement in terms of working with a stunt group.

 

The only other major complaint Gieve has about the squad’s newest member is that the man doesn’t smile enough. But that’s hardly a problem since he has to partner with Isfan for an entire year before this.

 

Farangis tucks her clipboard under one arm, and she sweeps her gaze once over everyone in the team before she speaks in a formal yet composed manner.

 

“Some of you might be my upperclassmen, but since I was given the position and responsibilities as this squad’s coach, I expect every single one of you to follow my instructions and training regimen. Those who are incapable of doing so or unwilling to do so will need to leave. This is a sport, and we should treat it as such, so if you’re only here purely for the fun of it or for any other ulterior motives, I suggest you should quit now and not waste anyone’s time,” she pauses here, and the silence is thick as the group listens intently.

 

Even Gieve has stopped fooling around and stands with his back straight.

 

She continues, her tone a touch more affable, “However, if there are any concerns or suggestions, I welcome your input, but know that the final decision will still be up to me and your captain, and I hope that everyone here is ready to accept and work with that in mind. Our goal now is to get more members during the school festival, win the top spot in Regionals, and get into the Nationals next summer.”

 

Everyone cheers at the end of that brief but poignant speech, though some members are more hopeful about the possibility of entering the nationals than others. Yet it doesn’t matter; what matters is that at this very moment, each and every one of them is ready to give it their all to achieve what seems to be unreachable.

 

A star so far in the distance – a mere spot of light from where they’re standing – that they know the journey to get there will be a taxing and arduous one filled with forks in the road and challenges standing in their way. But when they get there – as they are certain they will – the brilliance and beauty of it will surely be worth it.

 

“You’re quiet,” Isfan comments as he elbows his partner lightly to the side to get his attention. “Something wrong?”

 

“Hmm? Nothing. It’s just ––” Gieve exhales steadily and feels the invisible weight that has been suffocating him since the announcement of the club’s disbandment so many months ago being lifted off his chest bit by bit when he once again takes in the sight before him: new members of the cheerleading club full of unbridled enthusiasm, a sense of vibrant hope, and fresh possibilities. “I’ve always been grateful that I got to do all sorts of crazy fun things with you in this club during our first year, Isfan, and when the club almost got disbanded because our own coach ditched us, you were the only one willing to stay. But look at us now – new members, new coach, new direction; we’ll get to share that joy with everyone else, too, and it feels… kind of nice, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Isfan replies, lips curving up into a small smile.

 

After a brief pause, Isfan continues in the same lighthearted voice, “But don’t even think for a second that I don’t know what you’re up to. Your infatuation with Daryun is so obvious that it’s giving me second-hand embarrassment just from watching you trying to unsuccessfully flirt with him.”

 

“You think he knows?” Gieve asked, his voice not giving anything away.

 

“No, but I think everyone else in the squad does.”

 

“Damn.”

 

Well, Gieve is essentially an optimist. He has plenty of time to make Daryun change his mind within this school year.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shit ending I’m so sorry. I can’t escape the Gieve/Isfan, even if I’m just writing them as BFFs. Also I can’t seem to take Gieve seriously when he’s trying to be sentimental, LOL. Feels to ooc for some reason. Anyway, thanks for reading this silly AU of mine!


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